


I, Polyneices, son of Oedipus, cannot die.

by saberchild



Category: Oedipus Cycle - Sophocles
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Canon Era, POV First Person, POV Outsider, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:30:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5757361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saberchild/pseuds/saberchild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Antigone</i> from Polyneices's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I, Polyneices, son of Oedipus, cannot die.

I, Polyneices, son of Oedipus, cannot die. Or, rather, I cannot die completely.

I cannot cross the Styx, for I am unburied. It’s a final insult, after my throne was stolen by my younger (younger!) brother, and I was twice cursed by my father. Now, I am denied even my passage to Hades. After my disappointment, I returned to my body even though I, in my spectral state, have yet to find a way to end my newfound immortality.

The body lies discarded, with less respect than the carcass of an animal, outside the city. The only sign of my past royal status exists in a meager guard- a few men who are often enough not even present. My strange state was soon explained, for a freedom to eavesdrop is one benefit awarded by death, by the gossip of the guards as they discussed the punishment for anyone who dared bury “the traitor Polyneices.” I couldn’t believe it: Eteocles was the traitor, stealing the throne from Oedipus’s true heir, and even if this were not so, burial was a respect that was to be extended even to the fallen soldiers of an enemy army. Creon stopped just short, it seemed, of spitting directly onto my dead face.

* * *

My ambitions for Thebes were irreversibly halted and are limited more as my body begins its slow deterioration and becomes a foul, malodorous thing. I tried to return to it, and felt rather foolish lying on top of my corpse in an attempt at reanimation. After my failures at directly solving my predicament, I tried to alleviate my boredom- and perhaps find a solution- by wandering into the city. I delighted momentarily at the fact that I was finally free to sit upon my throne, but my mimed reign ended quickly as I realized how darkly pathetic the whole scenario was. I visited my old friend Creon, and found that my distaste for him had been strengthened by my time with my own foul-smelling remains. Seeing him strutting about, making speeches and promises, and taking up the role of king as if it was always his amused me. I invisibly jeered at him until it felt more awkward than satisfying. Noble, honorable Creon was inviting the wrath of the gods, and the people feared him- what a break from the doomed descendants of Laius! 

I had returned to my body as the city grew dark and quiet. I was slightly embarrassed by my unseen outburst, and had started doing some deep thinking about my selfish motivations when I was thankfully interrupted by the sight of a figure approaching, carrying a few things. I now watch her approach warily until I remember that I can simply approach her myself.

I have to crouch to see under the veil that the small woman wears, and I see a familiar face. Antigone’s face expresses only determination. She looks about herself to be sure that she hasn’t been noticed. My sleeping bodyguards are still very unconscious, and haven’t moved. She pulls out a cloth bundle and releases the dry sand it contains onto my corpse. She doesn’t waste time trying to dig up earth here. It’s a ritual burial to be sure, but I don’t mind. Poor Antigone seems ruled by love. Her love seems stronger than the ambitions and aspirations that drive men like Creon and me (and that incest-born backstabber Eteocles) to doom. She warned me, begged me, not to go to war against Thebes, and I brushed her aside. Still, here she is, holding her simple love and respect for the gods above even Creon’s threats. It’s incomprehensible. 

Her determination has broken into sorrow over the course of the simple funeral, and she cries out my name as she finishes. A guard stirs. She grabs the things she’s put down, and runs. So do I, to the afterlife.

* * *

 

I return to my body and see why my attempt at crossing had failed. I curse myself for not predicting it. They’ve rather rudely swept the burial off of my corpse (which has grown uglier and more nauseating). There are more guards around, and their earlier apathy towards guarding a dead guy seems replaced by a nervous watchfulness. Of course. I am filled, not for the first time, with a desire to commit some act of violence against my uncle. Perhaps a stoning would be best for him. It’s what they threaten my sister with now, though they don’t know it’s her. I can’t stone Creon, so I sit down and stare at the sun.

Around the fourth time that I try to create an irony that doesn’t exist about how my father was blinded and now I can’t be (because I’m dead) the sun is blocked by dust. I decide that there’s no relation between those first two things, snap out of my daze, and look about for my body. I’m far enough away from it that the suddenly forming storm obscures my view completely and it is lost. As the wind picks up, I move to cover my face before remembering that I can’t be blinded. The smell of carrion is tossed about to be unavoidable, and I feel pinpricks of sand as they fly through my ghostly body. I hear the shouts of the guards as they, and I, see a shadowy figure in the slowing dust. I laugh sharply and incredulously. Stubborn Antigone!

She is still finishing her ritual as the dust dies down and the guards are upon her. She doesn't fight as she's dragged away. One of the men cleans off my rotting body and my heart, the ghostly one, sinks. I scream after her, unheard, practically crawling through the dust as despair takes away my ghostly legs. I needed her.

* * *

 

My corpse and I are twins as I lie on the ground next to it. He's the ugly one. 

I went back to the city soon after my sister was taken. I watched them argue and cry. Seeing Creon stubbornly brush aside the advice of loved ones to preserve his honor and credibility inspired a familiarity. I'd done the same. 

I followed them around, too impatient to wait for my fate, until they sealed poor Antigone off into her stone tomb. I didn't see much value in watching her starve to death. My attempts to save her would have been more futile than even her attempts to save me. I considered roaming the world to make use of my now-unlimited time on it. I returned to check on my corpse, and I was tired, so I stayed. I didn't stop being tired. My time was occupied by wondering if the birds and wild dogs that occasionally gnawed on my bones could accidentally carry out a funeral. It was occupied by not thinking about Antigone, not thinking about how I'd earned such loyalty, and if I'd caused her fate more than our curse. 

As I lie there, trying very hard not to think about Antigone, a face comes into my view. They don’t want to touch the rotting corpse, and are careful not to do so as they roll it up in cloth to take it away. I shout after them, horrible curses, but I cannot retrieve the body. I wonder if whatever Creon will do to hide it away counts as a burial.

* * *

 

Creon wasn’t trying to hide my body. He had buried it. Off, in a tomb somewhere. I stayed this time, to be sure that it was done before I hastily ran off. He cried the whole time. The consequences of Antigone’s death had come remarkably fast. He cried for his now-dead son. He cried for his wife.  He cried even for his cursed, disgraced city.

He did not cry for me. He did not cry for Antigone.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yep this was a school project. I wrote the whole thing the night/morning before heLL YEAH


End file.
